“You’ve been so damn generous,” Wiley said. “I wish you could stay and watch the fun.”
“If I remained here,” Tommy said, “I’d bring nothing but pain to my people. The police would never leave them alone. It’s better to go far away, where I can’t be found.”
“I’m really sorry,” Wiley said.
“Why?” The Indian wore a look of utter serenity. In a voice that carried a note of private triumph he said, “Don’t you see? This way I will not die in prison.” That much he owed his ancestors.
“If you ever get down to Haiti,” Wiley said, “look me up in the phone book. Under E for Exile.”
“Stay out of trouble,” Tommy Tigertail advised. “Stay free.”
Wiley scratched his neck and grinned. “We pulled some outstanding shit, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” Tommy said. “Outstanding.” He shook Wiley’s hand and gave him the red kerchief from around his neck. “Good-bye, Skip.”
“ ‘Bye, Tom.”
The Indian walked briskly to the pickup truck. An ancient Seminole with thin gray hair and a walnut face sat behind the wheel.
“Let’s go, Uncle Billie,” Tommy said.
They could see Skip Wiley toiling at the console of the sleek boat, warming the big engine. He was singing in a stentorian cannon that crashed out over the carping gulls and the slap of the waves.
Rode a tank, held a general’s rank, when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank …
“Who is the strange one with the beard?” the old Seminole wanted to know.
“With any luck,” Tommy Tigertail said affectionately, “the last white man I’ll ever see.”
When they reached the toll booth to the Rickenbacker Causeway, Jenna sat up and asked, “Where we going?”
“For a boat ride,” Brian Keyes replied.
“I thought we were going to the police. Don’t you think that’s a better idea?”
“The goddamn marines would be a better idea, if I had that kind of time.”
Keyes knew exactly what the cops were doing—setting up a vast and worthless perimeter around the Orange Bowl. The city was howling with sirens; every squad car in Dade County was in motion. There were no helicopters up because of the bad weather—and without choppers, Keyes knew, the cops could forget about catching the Indian.
Jenna shifted apprehensively. She said, “I think you ought to drop me off here. This whole thing is between you and Skip.”
Keyes drove faster down the causeway. Years ago—a lifetime ago—he and Jenna used to park there at night and make love under the trees, and afterward marvel at how the skyscrapers glittered off the bay. Since then, the causeway had become extremely popular with ski-mask rapists and icepick murderers, and not many unarmed couples went there to neck anymore. Jenna said, “Why don’t you let me out?”
“Not here, it’s way too dangerous,” he said. “I’m curious—why’d you stop by the office today?”
“Just lonely,” Jenna said. “And I was worried sick about Skip … I thought you might know something.”
Keyes glanced at her and said, “Your little chore was to keep me company, right?”
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“You were in on the whole thing.”
“I hate you like this,” Jenna said angrily. “So damn smug, you think you’ve got it all figured out. Well, you don’t … there’s one thing you never figured out: why I left you for Skip.”
“That’s true,” Keyes said, remembering how nasty she could get. She sat ramrod straight in the seat, chin out, a portrait of defiance.
“The choice was easy, Brian. You’re a totally passive person, an incurable knothole peeper, a spy.”
Keyes thought: This is going to be a beaut.
Jenna said, “You’re a follower and a chaser and chronicler of other human lives, but you will not fucking participate. I wanted somebody who would. Skip isn’t afraid to dance on the big stage. He’s the sort of person you love to watch but would hate to be, because he takes chances. He’s a leader, and leaders don’t just get followed—they get chased. That’s not your style, Brian, getting chased. The thing about Skip, he makes things happen.”
“So did Juan Corona. You two would make a swell couple.”